PLAY YOUR GAME, c

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STRIKE HER WITH A BOLT OF THUNDER

Juniper Mae was a lot of things; she was both a blessing and a curse, albeit more like a curse disguised as a blessing than anything. Like a gift wrapped in the prettiest of papers, shiny and beautifully decorated with a lush bow, pulling onto the ribbon that tied her together revealed nothing but coal—hard, black coal—when she came undone. And like coal, she caught fire easily, reigning it in place, just as how she had held onto him.

What Reno hated most wasn't that he had a spoiled demoness for a boss, nor was it that someone other than him was singing his lyrics, his songs, for the public (because, let's face it, nobody ever acknowledged the lyricists behind the tracks)—no, what he hated most, had he been given the choice to transport himself to the past and reject Juniper's job offer, was the fact that he'd still accept it, regardless of whether or not he knew of the starlet's malicious demeanor. Not because he actually liked her, god forbid, but because money was the only thing, the only glue, that managed to uphold stability in his life.

A foreign hand belonging to the diva dug into the redhead's cranium, forcibly twisting it to face the tank, warm-hued irises meeting the beady eyes of a handful of fishes; he gritted his teeth, his own slender digits snaking around the offender's wrist, peeling her arm away from his frame, "Get your stinkin' claws off of me, woman!"

In other words, the "woman" named Juniper was his stability. Other careers he had taken ranged from cleaning tables in restaurants, pushing crates around, but they were always temporary and in no way promised a permanent place for him. Often did he scour the streets, rushing to the first sign of "For Hire" he spotted, but no more than a day would he then be released, personality too rebellious towards authorities, too conflictive to be of any benefit in the customer service realm.

When the golden song-writing offer fell upon his lap, Reno swore to himself he wouldn't, couldn't, mess the job up because of something stupid like "not getting along well" with co-workers, which in this case, was Juniper, but upon having his first argument with her, the crown diva in the music company, he was ready to be fired for the hundredth time (after all, who in their right minds called a celebrity a "bitch"?). But he wasn't. The violet-tufted songstress may have dangled the firing card in multiple of occasions, yet nothing ever happened, surprisingly. Maybe it was because he was a damn brilliant writer (scratch that, he was confident he was indispensable as a lyricist), and that was his saving grace, but the one thing he also despised was that they both knew he needed Juniper more than she needed him. There were plenty of writers who'd fall to Juniper's feet and churn as much music out for her if she snapped her fingers and demanded it, but unlike the amount of writers that existed, there was only one Juniper, one opportunity.

And he looked at her, the one and only Juniper, hand still cuffed to hers, "... Quiet down. I hear something," he suddenly said after a moment's silence, tossing his focus over his shoulders, "Did you hear that?" A pause. With his other hand, the nineteen year-old cupped the female's cheeks—a thumb on one, the remaining fingers resting on the other—and squeezed the plump features so that her lips could puff into an "o" form (much like her fishy friends), "It's the sound of my badass kind calling out to me! Bet they'd have more interesting things to say than all the shit coming out of your mouth," he snorted, correcting the angler fish's description of ugly as he turned her face left and right.

"Here's the title for your next song: 'Can't Wipe My Own Ass'," added the lad, "cause, apparently, you can't even do something as simple as carrying some of your own crap! Use your fucking talons, Princess Privileged," Surrendering his grip on her cheeks, he lifted Juniper's hand with the limb that was still attached to her, and slipped the handle of a bag onto it.

@juniper

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